I’ve read some Markson–poetry and the Vanishing Point books, and I love them–I haven’t read this one but it seems to be using similar materials–Markson’s mudus operandi I suppose (Is this the idea behind David Means’ new book?)…but with that in mind, maybe your index is undermining the author’s intent?

One can find traces of Markson’s “trivia” style stretching back even before Wittgenstein’s Mistress—see the “opening lines” and “closing lines” chapters in Springer’s Progress, for instance—but WM is where he solidified the style.

As for undermining Markson’s intent: isn’t that what all criticism is? The critic explains the work differently than way the author wrote it, almost always bringing in unintended interpretations. That’s what’s valuable about criticism.

This index isn’t a substitute or a replacement for the novel; it’s a tool for anyone who’s read the thing and wants to write critically about it. Because one of the challenges in writing about WM (and all later Markson) is remembering which page such-and-such factoid is on.

hmm…I don’t know. I think critics DO often work to undermine intent. However, I’m not sure I’d say it’s a necessary role. A discussion of the text might note that a Markson piece, if seen as “nonfictional”, could use an index. But the question then becomes one of genre and the tools for reading a text.

Perhaps one might say you’ve simply only furthered his intent which was to have a reader think on this as if it were a clear challenge to the idea of a text as an “original” work or one that is (as it always must be) full of quotation–links to the genealogy of the word.

I didn’t read your more full consideration of the text–one assumes this index is a furtherance of that work.

So, I don’t think you undermine (weaken) or intend to undermine…but rather you simply add intellectual girding to a piece or choose not to offer your interpretation’s strength.

Honestly, I think it’s impossible to know an author’s intent. Even when authors say, “This was my intent,” there’s no reason we should necessarily believe them. They could be misremembering, or lying, or just plain wrong. Authors are often terrible readers of their own work. They’re writers, not readers (of their own work).

And in any case, who cares what an author intends? Some authors intend terrible things, but somehow wind up making wonderful things. (Look at Leni Riefenstahl’s films.) Some authors mean the best and make crap. (Look at most art.) So it goes.

Markson’s responsibility as an artist was to make WM the best novel he could. He did that. After that, it’s the critic’s responsibility to write about WM, try to come to an understanding of how it fits into the culture at large, help others appreciate it. To that end, I hope the index is useful.

I don’t think it’s any different than, say, a plot outline, really. I’d never suggest this index be added to a print edition of WM—that would undermine the text. But I think it’s a useful critical tool to have somewhere on the Internet. Kinda like something like this.

This is simply like saying, “this is what this literary work means to me,” and then trying to make that singular meaning applicable to something more broadly significant. Which is okay–and it’s why Auden requests you lay out your “dream of Eden” before you are taken seriously as a critic.

However you (the critic–critics generally) have intentions which seem far more “dubious” or untrustworthy–or at the very least just personally motivated.

I think I can discern basic intent…but I do think that “meaning” can be slippery. And writing about one’s idea of the meaning of a work of art can be illuminating and fun.

And writers are often indeed readers of their own work–just frequently not very good ones…like dreamers too close to the dream. Markson, however, is likely a very astute reader of his own work.

I think that arguing over an author’s intent is even more miserable than arguing over a work’s “meaning.” At least with meaning, you can sometimes say, “Well, this means this.” There are conventions and ways of reading works. And you can look at historical readings, more influential readings, less influential readings.

But when you’re speaking about authorial intent, 99% of the time it’s really just two people making stuff up. And, again, I submit that, even if the author says, “This was my intent,” 1) there’s no reason we should necessarily believe her, and 2) there’s no reason to assume that she succeeded in expressing that intent.

I’m more interested in looking at artworks and seeing what they look like and do, regardless of what the author intended. 99% of the time, I honestly don’t care what the artist intended. When I walk around the Art Institute of Chicago, I rarely know what any of the artists collected there “intended.”

(Jonathan Rosenbaum recently pointed out that after It Happened One Night came out, a lot of men, inspired by Clark Gable, stopped wearing undershirts under their dress shirts. This caused a real crisis in the undershirt industry. Of course that probably wasn’t Frank Capra’s intent…but it’s what happened.)

Meaning is more complicated. I have little patience for people who argue what an artwork’s point is. But I do like criticism that draws out lines of thought, offers insights and interpretations, etc. The more the better!

That’s the first sentence of Wittgenstein’s Mistress. The first three words echo the Bible: “In the beginning God created the heaven and the earth.” I think it’s reasonable to assume David Markson intended that connection, but it’s impossible to prove that he did. (Again, even if he once said that he did, he might have been lying about it, or think later on that he intended it then. At the time, maybe he was unconsciously channeling it—the same way George Harrison was channeling “He’s So Fine” when he wrote “My Sweet Lord.” Then someone asked him about it and rather than look like an idiot he said, “Oh, yeah, I intended that.” This kind of thing happens all the time!)

Fortunately, the critic doesn’t have to prove that Markson ever intended anything; she can simply note the echo. If she catches other Biblical references, she can begin constructing a reading along those lines, and that reading might prove illuminating (it might also be garbage). But there’s no need to refer back to the author’s intent to do so.

Most biographies and critical works omit the fact that a lot of writers write in order to get laid, but that lacuna doesn’t render that fact untrue.

Well that’s quite a bit in response. I don’t intend to argue with a person that calls the troops into battle in overwhelming force.

I don’t think I’m really saying anything different than you are. Writers intend to write. I guess that’s basic enough. But you’re certainly right that I might not even be able to “prove” intent in the act itself–which really because useless and I understand that’s you’re point.

In several ways you dismiss much art and criticism as good or bad (“bad minimalist art” in the link you posted) and while I won’t argue that point it does prove that Adam makes judgments readily.

My reference to Auden comes from an essay in The Dyer’s Hand and it’s intended to show a way a critic can at least give a reader a guide to his thinking–to make clear “where he’s coming from”.

But in the end I guess we live with our suppositions and seek agreement and converts.

And in the end, really, I really just commented in order to perhaps chat a bit about Markson.

My apologies, Douglas—I didn’t mean to overwhelm. I tend to post things as I think of them, oblivious to their cumulative effect. You see what happens when I move away from and come back to my computer, while doing different tasks. But I’m sorry if I upset you. You’re right that we’re gathered here in a greater purpose, which is remembering David Markson.

Thanks for the Auden info. I haven’t read that one. Yes, the more one knows… I’ve long felt that peer critics should have to do this kind of thing in workshop. Along with their revision comments, they could list their current five favorite authors, that sort of thing.

I’ve always been very happy to criticize work, and judge it as either good or bad. (That said, on my more charitable days I sort artworks into two categories: those which I like, and those which I have not yet learned how to like. )

…I just don’t try to judge it based on what I thought the author’s intent was. For instance, Yves Klein might be my favorite contemporary painter. And if we take him at his word, the intent of his paintings was to dissolve our physical corporeality and provide access to a transcendent realm of pure emotion. Well, I’ve looked at quite a few of his paintings, and I can’t say I’ve experienced that yet. But I don’t think his paintings are failures because I’m still physically here.

ALTHOUGH I’m sure I do do judge work according to authorial intent, or perceived intent, sometimes. As John Cage once said, “You won’t find me consistent.”

WELL DONE INDEED! About 18 months ago I’d heard the same voices: “this book cries for an index!” and even had begun indexing it. Set it aside after 50 pages (and 700 entries! Way too inclusive; My index would have been longer than the book.) Was thinking about jumping back into it yesterday when your page came up an a google search.

I was trying to find that quote about the Japanese translation of speakers needing to be equidistant… driving myself crazy. Your index is a godsend! Looking forward to looking around on your site.
best
Janet

Thanks for this. Unfortunately there are no more cats in the colosseum [in the real world] but this is why we read, especially the likes of Markson. I don’t know if it was from reading Markson or from prior visits that i associate cats with the colosseum. Same goes for snow in Piazza Navonna, i always associate the two thanks to Markson, even though it is a rare event.